Popping The Bubble

"Such a gentleman!" I tapped at the computer, pulling up Bubbles and the Whang's massive playlist, scrolling up to the top of the alphabet. "But you're the guest. I insist, cutie." Because if I'd picked, I'd have pressed DELETE after highlighting every song.

"I think I want to hear Blind Man," he smiled, and the thing that had been dying inside me finally gave up the fight. It was among the worst songs in history. "Every time I hear it, it sounds so new. So fuckin' perfect, you know?"

"Oh, absolutely!" I lied. I blew a bubble as I cued up the song, my mind sorting through responses, trying to figure out what I should say. "I fucked to this album once, Jason."

"You could do that again in a little bit, here," he leered, already coaxing his dick. I cursed inwardly, but I was a pro. So I played it out.

"Well, shit. If that doesn't get the ol' juices flowing," I purred.

"Y'all can see that," Elliot said, speaking rapidly over the song's intro, "if you buddy us on Pixboox and tune in to our Sloppy Seconds show over on the Passion Pit there, after this installment of... Nude Mood!" He wrapped up just as Steven Tyler opened his mouth, hitting the post perfectly, then glanced at me once he was sure the mic was off. "Juices flowing, huh?"

"Well." I shrugged. "You know how it is."

"I sure do," Shaved Pubes butted in, leaning sideways to get a view of my pussy past my laptop. "I'm starting to feel some juices myself." Indeed he was; his hand hadn't left his dick, which was starting to grow. I nodded at it.

"Down, boy. We've still got thirty minutes of content." Only once had we tried to film out of sequence, the attraction between me and some guy from the tennis team completely unavoidable, so we'd started Sloppy Seconds at minute 26, fucked wildly, and then tried to get ourselves back under control for the other twenty minutes of Nude Mood content.

It had been difficult. We'd ended up doing it again right afterward. He'd been a delight.

Shaved Pubes barely managed to control himself until the end of the show when, in one of the least-surprising twists in the history of amateur pornography, he told the world that he was dying to pop the Bubbles. I sat there, beaming, as Elliot wrapped up the webcast. "Please join us over on the Pixboox Passion Pit for Sloppy Seconds, friends!"

"We're out," Grundle sighed, bored as hell, and then Elliot shot to his feet.

"Gotta pee," he announced, yawning.

"Wanna start now?" Shaved Pubes sounded greedy, a kid in a candy store. He was producing a nice hard-on, I'd say that for him.

"Hell fuck no." I knew I sounded brusque, but I had things to do. "I have to manage the subscribers until the Whang gets back. So hold your horses."

"What's your name?"

"Bubbles," I snapped, "and remember your consent and release forms. I tell you to stop, you stop. No question. And no cumming inside me."

"No problem." He licked his lips. "You're so hot."

I gave him a thin smile. "Thanks." I decided then and there to get this dude off as quickly as I possibly could. I squinted into his crotch. "You've got a mole on your taint. Anyone ever tell you that?"

He lifted his leg, unabashed, and leaned over in a deep curl to try to get a look. It was not an attractive pose. "Want to come show me?"

I gazed at the rough skin of his perineum, the beefy curve at the back of his thigh, and the winking pucker of his asshole. "No, thank you." My mind was reading him, evaluating, trying to figure out the fastest way to get him to unload.

So I didn't waste time with a whole lot of foreplay. The guy was a sophomore, just nineteen, and I was thinking he'd blow his wad pretty quickly if I just started fucking him. I let the camera catch me weighing his ballsack on my tongue, then batted my eyelashes at Grundle's lens as I let my cheeks hollow deeply in a loud, eager-looking suck at his head, but I was thinking I'd just go ahead and mount him as soon as possible.

Alas, though, he had other plans: he surprised me, as I tongued his cock, by reaching down and plunging two fingers right up into my cooze. Distantly, I wondered how wet I was, but it obviously didn't matter to him as he got more handsy. Then I decided not to put up a fight when he flipped me over and started in on a voracious 69. Though I'd done many (it looked great on camera), this was hardly my favorite position.

Still, I persevered. I made sure Grundle could see as I took my gum out of my mouth and strung it out, wrapping it around his shaft before sucking it back into my mouth. A trademark Bubbles move, that, and hopefully for the last time.

He wanted to stay on top, I could see, when I finally got him to get his face out of my twat and replace it with his dick. He was pretty nimble as he scooted between my thighs and gave me a roguish grin, his hand busy down below guiding himself into me.

Syntax.

Meter.

Free verse.

Walt Whitman.

The camera did not shy away from my brillo-pad pubes meeting the smooth skin at his root, zooming in as the kid sped up and rammed me. He was apparently fond of short, fast rabbit-thrusts, the kind which would make his balls swing dramatically, a fact not lost on Grundle; his camera was soon down at a low angle, aiming up at the back of his scrotum.

Capturing the mole, no doubt.

"The audience is offering two hundo if you'll pull out and spread your cock across her tits. Then lick 'em!"

I watched as if it was happening to another person, Shaved Pubes straddling me and wiping my vag-sauce and his pre-cum in titillating circles around my nipples.

Ballad.

Endstopped line.

Quatrain.

Sonnet.

"Doggy!" The Whang was calling out directions as if he was running a squaredance, and Shaved Pubes obligingly stopped so I could gather my legs beneath me and flip neatly over onto my hands and knees, the couch protesting underneath us. "Oh! Wait," Elliot went on just as I felt his knees position themselves, "they want the prone-bone now."

I felt Shaved Pubes pause, one hand pawing my butt, twisting around to look at the Whang. "What's that?"

"Here." I slid down onto my belly and arched my hips back, pivoting my slit upward. "Slide in from behind with my legs together."

"Oh."

"It's hot," I assured him. "Not that deep, though."

"Oh." He lay on top of me and went into sort of a pushup motion, then froze when I burst out laughing. "What the fuck?" He sounded pissed.

"No, hon. Put your legs outside mine. Just, like, straddle me." I gave him a warm smile as I corkscrewed back to look at him, but I could see he hadn't liked me laughing at him. Not one bit.

Dactylic hexameter.

Spondee.

Metaphor.

This goddamn guy was still at it, thrusting with those unsatisfying little pokes while I screamed out a Tony-award-winning orgasm, selling it hard. He had stamina though, still pushing, now under me because some rube had spent a few hundred to watch me ride once more. Dammit, I thought dimly; we should have announced that this was my last fuck. We'd have made more money.

Missed opportunity.

His strength had not vanished with his hair, and all at once a poem came to me, something on the theme of Samson, with me as Delilah thinking about how to sap his fucking strength, and that's why I laughed again, in exhilaration this time, as I thrashed atop him, my hips as precisely calibrated as ever, grinding down on him as his hands clamped my boobs.

Yeah, I told myself, I bet he didn't like that laugh either, but by then he was smacking my hip, pushing me off him with his face contorted in that unmistakeable masculine way that tells a woman when he's about to spurt, so I hopped off him with my pussy still gaping and hit the floor, my eyes looking up as his lively little balls jiggled with the speed of his hand on his shaft, coaxing his semen out for me.

And? Given all the laughing I'd done? I guess I couldn't blame him for getting half of it in my hair and the other half in my eyes, the fucking jerk. But I played my part, still hearing dollar signs in the wild staccato pinging from El's laptop, my tongue flicking up the last of his cum off the tip of his dick while I waited patiently to clear it out of my eyes.

And after he'd gone home and I'd done my best with my hair in the studio's little bathroom, Elliot gave me a long hug. "Well. You certainly sold it, Bunny."

* * *

A feast they wanted, a party, celebrating

The power of the man they'd long been seeking.

"A spectacle! A party! A time of cheering!"

As their enemy performed for them.

And so he did.

But then he found his strength abating.

Shorn but hairy, Gaza bloodlust slaking,

He surged. He strained. He glared sightless, peering,

And he never saw the walls collapse.

And so he died.

I opened my eyes at the end of the recitation, glancing over to see Professor Tirado sitting there with her mouth wide open. "Holy shit, Christa," she said, shaking her head, "where did that come from? It's raw."

"It's okay." I smiled, uncomfortable in a tanktop and skirt. Vaguely, I wondered how long it would take me to get used to wearing clothes on camera. "It's personal. It came from a place of really deep emotion, at a moment in my life where I was making a transition." I thought about Jason and his vanquished pubes. "It's symbolic. Some people are stronger than you wish they were. They last longer than you want them to."

"So... they should quit?"

I thought about how much shampoo it had taken to get his sperm out of my hair. "They should think about others. Not just themselves."

"Topical, too. The Gaza reference..."

"It's got more to it than meets the eye," I nodded, making this up as I went along, "just like Samson did."

Tirado dabbed at her eyes, and it amazed me that the tears looked real. Holy shit. I smiled at her and handed her a Kleenex. "So thanks, Pixboox buddies, for tuning into this inaugural edition of Rime Time With Christa The Modern Mariner, where we discuss all things poetry, friendship, and life in general. I'd especially like to thank Dr Lynne Tirado, an old friend of mine who's replacing me on Nude Mood With Bubbles And The Whang." I winked at Grundle, who was only charging me fifty an hour for this. Made sense; he didn't have to move, and he didn't have to think about the right camera angle for a cumshot. "Though she's certainly no Bubbles," I ad-libbed, leaning over to smack lightly at her tits.

"Oh, I could never be Bubbles." She went scarlet. "Never."

"But join Lynne and the Whang on their next exciting Nude Mood webcast, coming to the Bubblewhang Passion Pit along with this Rime Time show. Thanks again!"

"We're out." Grundle squinted at his screen. "Shit. Five thousand views in just the second half. Over eleven thousand total."

"Wow. No shit?"

"No shit." He gave me a thumbs-up. "And it went out live, so I don't even need to do post-production. Everybody's happy." He was already packing up his shit. "Call me when you want to do another show."

"Thanks!"

* * *

Home.

At the end of a lane.

At the end of a journey.

At the end of a night.

Home.

* * *

"How'd it go?" Tyler took my hand as I punched in my doorcode. I wasn't surprised he was waiting in my dorm room. "I wanted to come by, but practice only just ended. I wouldn't have made it. And I had to stop by Samurai's." He gestured at Jenn's bed, where he'd left a nice carrot-cake muffin. "For you. To celebrate your first show."

"Fuck. Thank you so much. It, uh, it went fine." I looked up at his eyes, and that was when I realized how worried I'd been. The idea of starting a fucking poetry webcast, live, without any kind of gimmick, wasn't something I'd have been able to make myself try without this man. I took a deep breath. "Really fine. It drew over ten thousand views."

His eyebrows rose. "Live?"

"Live," I sobbed, but it was a happy sob, a sob of tension sweeping through me and out of me, then falling with me into the ring of Tyler's warm arms.

"I got you." I heard it in his chest, his heart, his lungs vibrating right beside my head as I lay it against the broad wall of his chest, his whole body strong with the clean smell of sweat from his hockey practice. One of his hands found the base of my spine, the other the back of my neck, and I melted into him. "Come on. Lie down."

"I want my muffin," I said into his shirt.

"No. I want your muffin," he laughed, hand patting my ass, and then I was looking up and seeing eyes and mouth and tongue, and I craned high to meet his lips. We both moaned. Three months now, and the magic was the same: magnetic. Powerful. Familiar, somehow, as if the two of us had been together for years, or forever. He lifted me easily off the carpet, my feet climbing his legs, thighs clinging to his as our kiss deepened, tongues dueling.

And I stopped thinking about the poetry show. Or poetry in general. Or Elliot and Lynne. Or that carrot-cake muffin. All I thought about was him, the strength in his arms, the way he held me up in mind and body, and the next time my mouth came off his, it was time. I inhaled deeply and moved my lips to his ear. "I think I love you, Tyler Schiff."

"Oh." He stiffened against me, his whole body taut. "So... I can't fuck Elliot again?"

"No," I purred, "you cannot."

"Good." He waited until I came back into sight, then sat carefully on my bed with my legs astride his lap, my face hopeful and intent as he laid his big hands on my cheeks. "Because I don't want to. I love you too, Christa."

Well. Fuck. Those choirs of angels just wouldn't shut up these days, and this time when I kissed him my sob was a little different: still emotional from the show, but now there was more. So much more. I took his tongue into my mouth, feeling complete as I did, wanting all of him as badly as I had that first night.

It dawned on me suddenly that I had him. Fully.

I lifted his shirt over his head, craving his skin, his body, and it didn't surprise me when I felt his fingers doing the same thing with my tanktop. We didn't even need to talk anymore about how we longed to be naked together, how that exposure, that closeness, mattered so much. I raised my arms with a sense of freedom, my tanktop sailing away as Tyler whipped his hands down to snap my bra off. And suddenly there we were, close, topless, nipples pressed together as I ran my fingers up and down his massive arms.

The man was perfection.

He clasped me to him, his hands splayed on my back, our kisses growing hungrier and wetter. I knew he'd be hard, knew I should undo his pants and pull it out, but that would mean climbing off him. And I wasn't ready to do that yet. But I would be soon, my skirt up around my hips, showing him the crotch of my panties if he cared to look down.

He didn't. He let his fingers do his looking, instead.

I flung my head back off his face as I felt strong, thick fingers steering into my panties, then slipping into the hot juice of my needy pussy. I heaved forward, crushing his hand against me, giving him my tongue again as his thumb started strumming my clit.

Instantaneously, this guy could get me there. All at once. And he did, my body arching off his, tongue spearing straight down past his teeth along with a long, keening breath as I started to shake. "Your pants," I husked, thinking about how my cunt would be drooling all over them, "I need them off."

He jabbed his fingers deep once more, feeling me writhe atop him, then nodded with heavy eyelids. "Up," he grunted, heaving me off him; I scrambled to my feet on shaky legs, just barely on the right side of a smashing orgasm, and shimmied out of my skirt and, along with it, the seventh or eighth pair of underwear this guy had wrecked.

Not that I cared.

It never failed to make me catch my breath, seeing his cock come into view. Knowing I'd made it hard, that it was going to split me open. I marched toward him as his pants slipped down, my finger plucking at my clit, but it was a sorry substitute for his long, certain hand and an even sorrier one for his dick, which stuck up high and thick now as he sat his bare ass down on my bed and stared up at me.

So I planted my knees on either side of his thighs, feeling the heat off his body as it reached out toward mine, and when I slid forward and felt the warm steel of his hard-on touch my clit, I moved that much higher. "Put it in me," I demanded, whispering, begging, my hips swinging up to lift my slit up to kiss his smooth, trembling head.

And that's when I came, on the tip of his cock.

I gasped and buried my face in his neck, pussy fluttering all up and down its length as I sank down onto him, the hot bolts hurtling from behind my cunt to every part of my body. I gave everything to him, taking every thick inch, sinking down to his root and then trying to push even farther, desperate to feel him deep. I wrapped my arms and legs tight around him, impaled. As close as I could be to him.

And when at last my eyes eased open, fighting tears, I saw his face staring softly back at mine. "I do, you know. Love you," he whispered.

"Oh my god," I quavered, overwhelmed. I'd never felt anything close to this before, mind and body, totally filled in every way. "I love you too. I can't..." I was gone, flying high and far. But then he smiled, radiant, and he kissed me again, and it didn't matter that I couldn't find words. Because he was words, and acts, and deeds, and feelings. So many feelings.

And still I came, my entire body on fire, the two of us collapsing on our sides, onto the narrow bed where we'd done this so many times before. But everything was different now. I kissed him again and then slid my legs down under him, telling him I needed him above, smothering me, nailing into my body with all the force he had in those glorious muscles of his.

"Fuck me," I gasped out, but he already was, drilling deep and hard with long, easy strokes, riding that amazing dick into me like I was his whore, his sleeve. Like he wanted to fill me, wanted me to be the one who took his cum. Like he needed to show me what I did to him.

Like I was his love. And now I knew that I was.

I was watching wide-eyed as his face changed, hardening, looking almost cruel as he enjoyed what my body was doing to him. We moved unstoppably, flesh crashing together in sweaty slaps in time with our strangled moans and the harsh grate of the bedframe against the side of my desk where it had migrated with the force of his thrusts, and all the while he kissed me feverishly, his eyes open so that he could see mine close.

He braced his knees against the mattress, speeding up, my pussy gripping him as hard as I could tighten my muscles before, with a final arching shove, he planted himself deep inside my cunt and let himself go, flooding me in hard, eager pulses I could feel as long twitches from his dick, flexing hard, flooding me.

He collapsed onto my overheated body, but I wanted him to. I kissed whatever I could reach: lips, jaw, nose, neck, and then when my lips found his ear, I whispered, "Stay inside me. Please."

He nodded, both of us deflating. "Always," he breathed.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Be sure to give five stars to all your favorite Nude Day Contest entries.